


warriors made from flesh and bone (but bleeding, always bleeding)

by makemelovely



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Supergirl (TV 2015), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-16 23:54:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10582086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makemelovely/pseuds/makemelovely
Summary: everyday you are warriors. made for this, born for it. you live for this you will die for this.





	

i. Kara Danvers

When you were a little girl you were put on a little spaceship and told to protect Kal-El. You wanted to stay but you couldn't. They wanted you to go to Earth to protect baby Kal-El. So you got into the little pod and you left.

In a perfect world you made it to Earth and you protected Kal-El. You became not only his shield but his sword. His enemies were your enemies. He was yours to protect and oh how you protected him. You with your infinitely happy smile and bright words. You became his sword, sharp and cold as you sliced through skin and bloodied yourself. You became cold and metal. Your skin was stained with the blood of others.

Except that is not your world. Instead, your pod was knocked off course. You didn't get out for years and years and years. And when you did, Kal-El was all grown up. So you were sent to live with the Danvers.

You spent some weekends with Kal-El. He worked too hard and didn't pay attention but the worst thing was his humanity.

His Kryptonese was off. His words were wrong. Off in a subtle sort of way. He was utterly human and you were utterly alone.

He shouted at you when you called him Kal-El.

(But that's who he is. You are his sword to smite his enemies and his shield to protect himself and he is not Clark Kent.)

He shouted at you when you spoke Kryptonese.

"You live on Earth now, Kara. Act like it!" He battered you verbally, turning your heart black and blue.

(It's been years and years and years since Krypton blew up to him but it just happened yesterday for you. You can still feel the rocks as you scooped them up. You can still feel the dust, drifting through your fingers and catching onto your eyelashes, holding on.)

Krypton blowing up is a fresh tragedy for you but he has never known Krypton. He has never seen his home explode into nothingness. In this way, you are older than him. It brings you a sweet, bitter satisfaction.

He doesn't understand that Krypton is your home. You never wanted to leave. 

(But you did. For him. The bitterness swirls in your stomach. Coiling tightly against your insides.)

Now you are part of a home that hurts. It burns you and cuts you to the bone. It hurts, and aches. Constantly.

Because Eliza snapped at you never to say that word again after you asked her what the word 'bitch' means. You were only asking because Alex had muttered it under her breath. Sometimes she forgot you had superhearing.

Sometimes she said it anyways.

You grew up and you couldn't save the lives of the tiny dying humans as they lived around you. On Krypton, you helped people in need.

Here you are not able to. Because your skin is steel and your bones are iron.

You can not break. You can not bleed. You can not bend.

It is impossible.

You are unbreakable, despite the fact that Alex treats you like.

When you rescue her after she puts herself in danger again for your sake, you wrap an arm around her. You fingers stretch across her ribcage and you idly think that you could break her ribs. Obliterate them.

It wouldn't be hard.

When she holds her hand, you could shatter every single bone in her hand.

Alex is breakable. Her bones snap like twigs. Her skin bleeds with every prick. Her legs shake with every strain.

You are not breakable. You are stronger than every single thing on this planet.

You are stronger because you are different.

You are The Girl of Steel. You are Supergirl.

The Girl of Steel doesn't bend, doesn't break. You don't burn.

You are Supergirl, the light in the dark. The beacon of hope in the storm of chaos.

You are a warrior. A sword to rip through the flesh of your enemies. A bullet to shatter your bones as you tear through the masses of enemies.

You are and always will be a weapon.

ii. Buffy Summers

You are fifteen years old when you are Chosen. Fifteen when the weight of the world sits on your shoulders and you can not drop it or exchange it. You are stuck with it, even as your legs shake and your shoulders burn and your bones shatter under its weight. You will remain holding it until you die and then you are finally free.

Except you'll be dead so you convince yourself that its not that bad feeling yourself shatter.

It's a lie, though. It's fucking painful to know you are dying for a cause you didn't ask to be a part of.

You are sixteen when you die. You are sixteen when the weight of the world changes from your shoulders. It lifts, and all you feel is joy coursing through your veins because you are free.

Freedom sings to you and it aches and burns and you surrender.

The Master drops you into the water and your lungs fill with water and you are swimming.

You are swimming in an inky black abyss and you love it because you are free. You shift effortlessly from the dark water to the soft, shining light above. The clouds curl around you and harps play and you are awake coughing out water. The black abyss swims against your eyelids and you are alive.

You breath in, breath out. The world is back on your shoulders and your legs are buckling under its weight.

Everything in your is screeching and shouting for that freedom but you ignore it.

You are twenty when you die again.

Dawn is going to die unless you save her. So you save her by taking her place.

You take the place of a sister who isn't actually your sister. Her blood starts the portal and her blood ends it. Simple solution, really.

Except you can't. Because this is your baby sister. Who stole your lip gloss and mini skirts and cute boots and your bicycle. You take her place because you didn't come this far to see her die. So you take her place. After all, she is made from you. She is an exact copy of you, blood and D.N.A. It is all the same.

You tell her to live and you kiss her goodbye and you leap to your death. The last sight you see of your sister is her staring at you with a wide open mouth. Her light blue eyes are filled with tears and her skin is pale and she is bloody. Her hair whips around her face and she shakes.

The last sight you see before you die is the hell realm bleeding into your reality. Demons and fire and bloodshed. Utter chaos.

You fling yourself off and you fall.

And it burns.

Your skin screams at the electricity coursing through your body, and your heart pounds in your ears. It gradually grows weaker and weaker and weaker. Until it stops. Your eyes flutter shut and your heart doesn't beat and you don't move and your lungs don't breath in air anymore. You drop to the ground. Lifeless.

Your a corpse.

You end up in heaven. Safe and warm and content.

You wake up in your coffin, cramped and crowded in the wooden box. You can't breath. You dig frantically, until your knuckles are bloody and you have splinters and the wood chips away. You crawl through the dirt. Fingers digging into the soft earth, desperate for air. You hair once golden is now dark with dirt and mud and grass. You end up lying a few feet away from your grave, reading the headstone. Buffy Summers, it reads. That's your name. You are dead. Except you aren't.

You want to die but you don't. Instead you live one day after the other. Slowly but surely living. Even if you don't want to.

Later you see what you are. What you will always be.

A weapon.

Willow raised you from the dead so you could fight. She didn't think about what you wanted. She just needed a sword and there you were. Sure you were dead but she could fix that. And then she made you forget. That you weren't always a weapon. That once you were at peace. Happy. Warm. Done with the horrors that life brought the Chose One.

Later, in a magic haze Willow had muttered that she should have sent you back. It would have been a hell of a lot easier than putting up with your whining and moping, she had muttered while her eyes were black.

If it's defective send it back. Everybody knew that rule. So here you were, defective, and she could have sent you back.

It chilled you and thrilled you and burned you and soothed you. It destroyed you, in the end.

Because in the end you were still here, glowing brightly in the moonlight as it glinted off your silver metal skin. A sword, glinting sharply in the moonlight as you stabbed it through the heart.

You don't bleed. You can't. Weapons don't bleed, they aren't made of flesh and blood.

But sometimes you think neither are you.

You are alive and that is pointless. You will die again but you might not stay dead. With your luck you won't. Some idiot will bring you back and you will go back to being a weapon.

(Sometimes you like being a weapon. You don't remember being anything else. It's a comfort. The violence. It's soothing to rip and slash and tear because it is all you know. Sometimes you hate that. Mostly you just pretend not to notice.)

You have died and lived and died again. You know you aren't the only weapon but you are the best. The strongest, the smartest, the coldest. They say you are dead inside and you don't even flinch when blood showers you as you slice the throat of a human looking demon with large orange eyes and thin claws. Human enough, anyways.

(You go home and mechanically clean yourself off. You wipe off your weapon and wash the blood from your clothes and change and sleep until the morning).

You have lived and died and you don't know the difference anymore. All of your memories are stained with bloodshed. Just like a weapon.

Your skin is shiny and silver and you slice through enemies like butter.

You are the Chosen One and you will always be a weapon.

You will never know peace.

After all, weapons are instruments of war. You will only ever know war.

iii. Harry Potter

You are the tiny age of one when you are Chosen. When your parents are slaughtered and a brilliant green light flares in front of your eyes and your world explodes in shades of emerald. Later when you are fourteen you find out it was The Killing Curse, and you are the only one to ever survive it.

You are fifteen when you find out you will either live or die. One can not live while the other survives.

Sometimes you wish you don't survive.

Sometimes you wish you had never been born.

Because you are fifteen and you might die when Voldemort wants you too. Because your skin is cold to the touch. Because you're a little too sharp and a little too bloody. Because Dumbledore chose you to be the savior.

Maybe. Maybe this is all an accident. Maybe you don't understand the way Dumbledore let him live. Let him walk out of Hogwarts knowing the boy was a murderer. It disgusts you and it makes you sick.

You continue to do what Dumbledore says anyways because he loves you in his own, special way.

You are sixteen and sometimes when you wake up you think about your funeral. If you get to have one. You think that maybe Ginny will cry and talk about how she loves you and how she misses you. Mrs. Weasley will weep and weep for the boy who was her son in everyway but flesh and blood. Dumbledore will speak about how great you were and the affection he held for you. Hermione will read some speech about bravery and friendship and love because you were so brave and held friendship in the palm of your hand and held it out like fruit and how you loved with your whole heart. Ron will tell funny stories of your adventures and Dobby will babble happily about your greatness.

You are seventeen when you die. When the world slides out of focus and tilts. How waves of dizziness creep over you and dark trees loom over your head while a gentle white mist slinks over the treetops and settles around you.

It is pretty and peaceful. It's nice and lovely. It is death.

You wake up and feel lighter than you ever have.

You wake up and you fight. You are the weapon and slice and slash all of your opponents. You destroy those in your path and burn the bones behind you.

You rip and shatter and tear and you win.

Your skill and personal expertise on your self has won you the war.

You are whole, except for the hollowness in your stomach. It is a pit, dark as the night. It twists and squeezes your organs like a snake, tightening. Always tightening.

You are the Chosen One. Dumbledore has always wielded you.

He's always wielded you because you are a sword.

Used to destroy others and cut their skin, sending blood coursing to the ground.

You get used to it.

iv. Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern | Sebastian Verlac

Father raised you to be perfect. You spoke correctly and stood correctly and you wielded your weapons properly. It was not enough.

Father beats you, his hands bruising and bloodying you. He tears you apart with your words until you build yourself into a golden boy. Mild mannered, soft spoken, almost weak. It hurts you in your soul to reign yourself in. It stabs itself in your gut and you spit blood.

You hate it when he acts like you aren't the best son he has. You do everything right, everything. He can not fault you for a single thing but he does. It seems that it is your fault you obey him. That you are the perfect son. It's almost as if he expects you to do something different than expected but you can't. You are supposed to be the perfect son.

No, not the perfect son.

The perfect weapon.

You are to bring the destruction of Downworlders and you are to sit at the foot of your father's throne.

(You aren't really about destroying Downworlders or even the Clave. No, you want to destroy the world).

(It will burn, burn, burn, burn. Everything will simmer in ashes and melt to nothing and the Shadowhunters will burn.)

It was a surprise to meet Clarissa. Clary.

She was gorgeous and fiery and special. She would sit in the throne beside you.

She would rule hell with you and laugh at the blood that ran through the streets.

She was going to be everything you craved.

(She would watch the world burn and laugh, laugh, laugh, laugh).

You clung to her and scratched at her, clawing through her with everything you had and sliding her into silky dresses so she would be beautiful.

You wanted-no needed-her to want the world to be yours. Together. You wanted her to want you. To need you as you need her.

As you are dying you realize something.

You aren't a weapon. Not anymore.

Or maybe, you think as blood flows from your wound and you are dying, dying, dying, dying. Or maybe you will always be a weapon.

Yes, you think, you would like that.

It's all you know.

One last comfort before death.

You were born as a weapon and you die as a weapon.

Full circle.


End file.
